THE    MESSENGER 


KATHARINE  HOIXANB  BROWX 


OS  CALIF.  LIBEABYf  Los  ma^ 


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Henry  van  Dyke 

School  of  Life 

The  Spirit  of  Christmas 


THE   MESSENGER 


THE  MESSENGER 

By 
Katharine  Holland  Brown 


NEW  YORK 

Charles  Scribner's  Sons 

1910 


Copyright,  1910,  by  Charles  Scribner's  Sons 


Published  March,  1910 


To 

H.  B.  M. 


THE    MESSENGER 

FORTY-SECOND  STREET! 
Grand  Central  Station!" 
Edith  MacDonald,  startled 
from  her  heavy  thoughts,  sprang  to 
her  feet,  and  stood  bewildered,  then 
hurried  from  the  subway  train,  in  the 
wake  of  the  pushing  crowd.  Her 
long  crape-bound  cloak  tripped  and 
hampered  her;  the  crape  veil  smoth- 
ered on  her  mouth  and  eddied  dizzily 
before  her  eyes.  The  guard  put  out 
a  brusque,  kindly  hand  and  steadied 
her  to  the  platform.  Edith  did  not 
notice  him.  She  stood  stupidly  un- 
der the  blazing  lights,  her  small  cold 
hands  fumbling  with  her  cloak. 
Then,  suddenly  remembering,  she 


THE  MESSENGER 

turned  and  fled  awkwardly  up  the 
long  iron  stairs.  She  ran  with 
clumsy,  uneven  steps,  like  a  blind 
woman.  Her  slender  body  wavered : 
every  movement  was  graceless  and 
unpoised.  She  was  a  straight,  ex- 
quisite young  thing,  lissom  as  a 
dryad;  but  since  she  had  put  on  this 
shrouding  black,  it  was  as  if  she  had 
put  on  weakness  and  awkwardness 
with  its  dragging  folds. 

She  reached  the  top  stair,  breath- 
less and  trembling.  She  sped  on  in 
her  frantic  haste,  bought  her  ticket, 
then  dashed  for  the  north-bound  train. 
"Hurry,  hurry,  hurry!"  She  heard 
her  numbed  lips  muttering  it  over 
and  over,  a  dreary,  senseless  chant. 
"Hurry,  hurry,  hurry!"  As  if  it  could 
matter  now  whether  she  lagged  or 
hastened,  whether  she  crept  or  ran! 


THE  MESSENGER 

She  had  always  hurried  so,  for 
Tom.  All  that  one  golden  year,  they 
had  gone  racing,  hand  in  hand,  two 
rapturous  children.  But  she  need 
not  hurry  to  reach  Tom,  now.  Tom 
would  not  go  without  her.  Tom — 
would  wait! 

The  car  was  crowded  and  hot;  yet 
Edith  drew  her  wrappings  close 
around  her,  for  she  shivered  with 
mortal  cold.  She  stared  through  the 
broad  window.  Gray,  ice-locked 
river;  gray,  leafless  woods;  an  ash- 
gray  sky.  It  was  always  like  this. 
For  there  was  no  color  left  in  the 
world,  nowadays.  No  rose  in  the 
east,  no  gold  in  the  west;  no  light  at 
all  upon  the  weary  land.  .  .  . 

One  or  two  people  were  glancing  at 
her,  curiously.  A  sick  fear  assailed 
her.  She  shrank  back,  cowering  into 
[31 


THE  MESSENGER 

her  deep  sheathing  furs.  By  this 
time,  her  household  would  have 
missed  her,  surely.  And  they  would 
be  distressed  and  anxious.  They 
were  so  devoted,  so  tender,  so  mad- 
dening— her  poor  family!  Through 
all  these  months,  they  had  never  once 
left  her  alone,  not  even  for  an  hour. 
She  had  never  been  outside  her  house, 
save  in  her  own  brougham,  with 
either  her  mother  or  the  steadfast 
family  nurse  at  her  side.  How  des- 
perately they  had  all  toiled  to  soothe 
her,  to  divert  her!  She  chuckled 
helplessly  at  the  thought  of  their 
adoring,  witless  efforts  to  console. 
The  pitiful  comicality  of  it!  That 
they  should  dare  to  try  to  comfort  her ! 
That  they  could  dream  they  could 
divert  her  mind  from  thinking  of 
him,  of  Tom ! 

[4] 


THE  MESSENGER 

She  wrenched  herself  erect.  The 
laughter  in  her  eyes  yielded  to  a  dull, 
miserable  stare.  The  old  pitiless 
Question,  the  unrelenting  challenge 
which  from  the  first  hour  had  hound- 
ed her  and  tortured  her,  spoke  now 
in  her  deepest  thought.  Her  mouth 
repeated  it;  her  very  heart  beat  it 
out,  in  quivering,  anguished  pulses. 

"  No.  This  isn't  the  end.  It  can't 
be.  Somewhere,  he  is  alive.  He's 
waiting  for  me.  I  must  believe  that. 
I  must,  I  must !  But — if  only  he  had 
believed,  too!  If  he  had  once  told 
me  that  he  had  faith  in  the  farther 
Life — that  he  was  sure!  If  he  had 
only  given  me  that  trust,  to  cling  to 
...  If  he'd  just  said  one  word.  .  .  . 
I  can't  hold  up  any  longer,  unless  I 
know.  I'll  drown." 

The  train  jarred  to  a  stop.  She 
[5] 


THE  MESSENGER 

crept  to  the  ground,  then  stood  look- 
ing blankly  at  the  little  station,  set 
deep  in  its  frame  of  winter  woods. 
One  or  two  carriages  stood  near  the 
platform.  She  turned  from  them 
and  started  away,  up  the  icy  road. 
She  knew  the  way  well. 

And  as  she  stumbled  on,  over  the 
frozen  ground,  her  lips  moved  still, 
whispering,  over  and  over,  her  pite- 
ous litany. 

"If  only  he  had  told  me!  If  only 
we'd  talked  it  over,  just  once!  I 
could  hold  fast,  I  know  I  could — if 
just  I  knew  that  he  had  believed!" 

They  had  been  married  barely 
twelve  months,  Tom  and  she.  In 
their  tumultuous  happiness,  they  had 
never  given  thought  to  any  other  life, 
save  to  this  overflowing,  enchanting 
rapture  of  to-day.  They  knew  no 

[6] 


THE  MESSENGER 

misgivings,  they  felt  no  doubts.  To 
them,  there  was  no  terror  of  cloudless 
noon.  All  their  royal  fortunes,  their 
splendid  joys,  were  theirs  by  divine 
right,  the  inexhaustible  heritage  of 
their  kingdom  of  youth.  And  now 
that  Tom  was  gone,  struck  away  from 
her  in  one  breath  by  horrible  acci- 
dent, Edith  stood  like  one  alone  on  a 
deserted  world. 

She  faced  her  sorrow  with  a  noble 
patience.  She  came  of  a  brave  race. 
But  that  implacable  Question  of  be- 
reavement rang  through  her  brain  by 
night,  burnt  on  her  searching  eyes  by 
day.  If  he  had  only  once  spoken! 
If  he  had  only  once  assured  her  of 
his  hope,  his  faith,  then  she  could 
hold  fast,  even  through  this  black 
tempest.  Her  own  faith,  a  prettily 
childish,  outgrown  tinsel  creed,  gave 

m 


THE  MESSENGER 

her  no  help.  Piteously  she  realized 
that,  of  herself  alone,  she  could  not 
believe.  She  could  cling  to  that  hope 
only  with  Tom's  grasp  to  help  her 
hold. 

An  hour  later,  she  stumbled  back, 
down  the  lonely  road  to  the  station. 
Her  beautiful  face  was  colorless  and 
impassive,  drained  of  all  expression. 
But  her  eyes  baffled.  They  held  rage, 
as  well  as  agony.  It  had  all  been  as 
she  had  known,  inexorably,  that  it 
would  be.  The  sight  of  that  long 
mound,  wrapped  in  frost-burnt  grass, 
had  only  mocked  at  her.  Its  taunt- 
ing silence  infuriated.  It  gave  not 
one  word,  not  one  clue.  Insolently 
it  drove  her  back,  beaten  and  cowed, 
to  her  own  sick  round  of  thought. 
Smarting,  furious,  unutterably  be- 
ts] 


THE  MESSENGER 

reft,  she  blundered  back,  aboard  the 
train. 

Again  the  car  was  crowded.  She 
shared  a  seat  with  another  woman,  a 
tired,  shabby  creature,  loaded  with 
bundles.  Edith  did  not  look  her 
way.  Side  by  side,  the  two  made  one 
of  the  unending  contrasts  of  every 
day;  Edith,  swathed  in  her  sumptu- 
ous furs  and  crape,  her  vivid  young 
beauty  hardly  dimmed  by  its  shadow ; 
the  other,  a  gaunt  Irishwoman  of 
middle  years,  dressed  in  forlorn, 
skimpy  black,  her  thin  face  worn  and 
marred  by  work  and  child-bearing. 
She  was  a  commonplace  figure 
enough.  But  her  lips  were  kind. 
And  once  or  twice  she  glanced  at 
Edith,  and  a  vague  light  lifted  in  her 
faded  eyes. 

Halfway  into  town,  the  train  was 
[9] 


THE  MESSENGER 

stopped  by  a  trifling  breakdown. 
There  would  be  an  hour's  delay,  the 
conductor  explained,  impatiently. 
The  two  women  hardly  noticed. 
They  sat,  indifferent,  in  the  midst  of 
the  fretting  crowd.  It  grew  twilight; 
Edith  shivered  in  the  gathering  chill. 
Her  cloak  had  dropped  from  her 
shoulders,  but  she  made  no  move  to 
draw  it  back. 

Presently  the  elder  woman  turned 
to  her.  She  hesitated;  then  she 
drew  the  cloak  up  round  the  slender 
shoulders,  and  fastened  it  with  gentle, 
awkward  hands.  Edith  looked  up. 
Their  eyes  met,  with  a  slow  under- 
standing gaze. 

"I  know,"  said  the  elder  woman, 
under  her  breath.  Her  knotted  hand 
lay  tenderly  on  Edith's  black  sleeve. 
;<You  lamb!  I  know.  It's  meself 

[10] 


THE  MESSENGER 

that's  lost  all,  all.  First,  'twas  me 
old  mother,  the  sweetest  soul  alive. 
An'  then  me  children,  me  own  wee 
ones.  An'  then" — she  halted,  with 
a  hard  breath—  "an'  then — Himself. 
An'  'twas  then  I  thought  all  the  world 
was  gone  from  me.  For,  oh,  he'd 
been  the  good  man  to  me!"  Her 
wan  mouth  quivered.  "But  now, 
I've  learned.  An'  I  can't  grieve  him, 
like  I  did  those  first  days.  For" 
her  gaunt  face  took  on  a  strange 
radiance,  mysterious,  ineffable—  "for 
he's  the  good  man  to  me,  yet.  Now, 
even  though  we  two  are  apart. 
Now,  and  always.  Though  I'd  niver 
have  knowed  it,  mayhap,  if  'twasn't 
the  doctor  had  told  me." 

Edith  heard  her,  in  listless  silence. 

"The  doctor  it  wras,  who  brought 
me  the  word  from  him,"  she  went  on, 
[11] 


THE  MESSENGER 

softly,  after  a  while.  ' '  May  blessings 
be  on  him  an'  on  his,  forever,  for  the 
blessing  that  he  gave!  An'  yet  'tis 
little  need  he  has  of  prayers  from  the 
likes  o'  me.  For  now  he's  gone 
Beyant,  too,  they  tell  me.  Though 
I  can't  believe  it,  at  all.  For  he  was 
that  alive,  every  inch  of  him!  Ah, 
the  tall,  fine,  merry  lad  he  was,  with 
his  straight  back,  an'  his  grand  red 
head,  and  the  laugh  in  the  black 
kind  eyes  of  him!  He  was  grand 
folks,  too,  for  his  people  was  all  rich, 
an'  fine,  and  he'd  married  him  a  rich 
girl,  too,  an'  a  beauty,  they  say. 
But  none  of  those  things  made  no 
differ  in  him.  He  was  always  the 
same.  Just  as  friendly  an'  easy  as 
if  he'd  been  one  of  ourselves.  An' 
sure,  he  was  one  of  us.  For  we  wint 
to  him  with  iverything.  Priest,  an' 

[12] 


THE  MESSENGER 

father,  an'  doctor,  he  was,  all  to  once. 
An'  now  he's  gone.  .  .  .  Wid  his 
black  laughin'  eyes,  an'  his  square 
chin,  an'  the  good  red  head  of  him!" 

"What  doctor  are  you  talking 
about?  What  was  his  name ?" 

Edith  MacDonald  roused  and 
turned  on  her  suddenly.  Her  hands 
clenched,  cold.  She  stared  at  the 
other  woman  through  a  flickering 
mist. 

"Why,  young  Doctor  MacDonald, 
sure.  Doctor  Thomas  MacDonald. 
An'  he  lived  on  Gramercy  Park,  in 
that  big  splendid  stone  house,  with 
the  marble  porches,  an'  wistary  vines 
all  over  it 

Edith's  lips  set  in  an  ashen  line. 

"I  knew  him,  too,"  she  said,  at 
length.  Her  voice  rang  in  her  ears, 
faint  and  far  away. 

[13] 


THE  MESSENGER 

"Well,  did  ye,  now!"  The  wom- 
an looked  back  at  her,  with  kind, 
uncomprehending  eyes.  "Ah,  an' 
wasn't  he  the  dear  lad,  then!  Sure, 
do  ye  remember  that  red  head  of  his, 
ma'am,  *  carrot-top,'  he'd  call  it? 
An'  the  lean,  long  jaw,  an'  the  man's 
sober,  kind  eyes  of  him,  wid  the  boy's 
laugh  a-shinin'  through?" 

Did  she  remember? 

"An'  the  strong  hand  he  had,  an' 
the  wise  brain  to  rule  it.  How'd  we 
come  to  know  him  ?  Why,  'twas 
from  long  years  back ;  from  the  times 
when  he  was  a-hangin'  to  the  tail- 
board of  the  ambylance,  a  young 
snip,  just  servin'  his  time  at  Bellevue. 
He  was  on  our  beat,  down  through 
Greenwich  Village,  'tis.  That  sum- 
mer, they  was  workin'  on  the  tunnel ; 
maybe  twenty  times  a  day,  the  amby- 

[14] 


THE  MESSENGER 

lance  would  go  dingin'  through,  to 
fetch  some  poor  felly  who'd  been 
knocked  out  wid  the  heat.  Well,  one 
day  my  wee  Katy  was  crossin'  the 
street,  an'  down  come  the  wagon, 
ding-dong.  Whether  the  horse 
struck  her,  or  whether  she  just  tum- 
bled down  careless,  I  never  rightly 
knowed.  But  down  she  went, 
straight  under  the  horse's  feet.  I 
wasn't  twenty  foot  off;  I  give  one 
spring,  an'  snatched  her  up  in  me 
arms  before  she'd  more  nor  hit  the 
pavement,  she  screechin'  fire  an' 
murder,  an'  every  other  kid  on  the 
block  yellin'  fit  to  kill.  Not  one 
scratch  there  was  on  her  darlin' 
bones,  thanks  be.  But  Doctor  Mac- 
Donald,  he  lep'  off  the  tail-board,  an' 
come  tearin'  back,  whiter  than  his 
white  coat. 

[15] 


THE  MESSENGER 

"Easy,  sir,'  I  says.  For  he 
breathed  like  he'd  run  a  mile,  an' 
the  very  soul  was  scared  out  of  his 
eyes.  "Tis  not  hurted  she  is,  no 
more  nor  the  scare.  Whist,  Katy, 
don't  be  so  wild.' 

;<  Thank  the  Lord!'  says  he,  mop- 
pin'  his  forehead.  An'  the  grin  be- 
gan to  come  back  in  his  eyes.  'I've 
see  two  miracles  this  day:  an  Irish 
mother  with  the  rare  blessing  of 
common-sense;  and  an  injy-rubber 
child.  Come  along,  Smith.'  An'  he 
hops  on  the  step,  an'  he's  off,  with  a 
wave  of  that  red  head. 

"It's  maybe  fifty  times  he's  passed 
us  by  that  summer,  on  a  hurry  call. 
But  he's  never  forgot  to  wave  to  us, 
as  gay  as  you  please. 

"Ah!  That  was  the  black  year 
for  us,  intirely.  First,  me  brother 

[16] 


THE  MESSENGER 

Larry  was  brought  home,  near  killed 
in  that  box  factory  fire.  By  God's 
mercy,  'twas  Doctor  MacDonald  that 
we  thought  to  send  for.  An'  he 
came,  flyin*.  An*  he  worked  over 
Larry,  hour  after  hour,  an'  he  brought 
the  boy  through  alive.  No  other  man 
livin'  could  ha'  done  it.  'Twas  like 
he  carrid  him  back  in  his  arms,  from 
the  very  gates  of  death. 

"An*  the  same  it  was,  a  month 
after,  when  the  dipathery  came.  He 
couldn't  save  me  little  Paitrick,  nor 
me  poor  sister's  baby,  Eileen.  But 
he  saved  my  Katy  for  us,  that  we  had 
the  one  child  left,  to  feed  our  starved 
hearts  on.  'Twas  niver  his  medi- 
cines that  done  the  work.  'Twas  the 
power  of  the  man,  himself.  He'd 
come  any  time  we  wanted  him,  night 
or  day.  He'd  do  for  my  little  Katy 

[17] 


THE  MESSENGER 

like  she  was  a  prince's  child.  I  mind 
one  night  we  sent  for  him,  at  mid- 
night it  was.  'Twas  not  a  month 
after  he  was  marrid.  He'd  gone  to  a 
great  ball,  an*  he  came  splittin'  down 
in  his  motor,  all  in  his  fine  evenin' 
clothes,  for  there  was  no  time  to  lose. 
Katy,  she'd  been  like  she  was  sinkin'. 
But  she  waked  up  for  his  voice.  An' 
she  smiled,  an'  put  up  her  little  hot 
hands,  to  stroke  his  grand  shiny 
shirt-front.  *  Pretty,  pretty,'  she  says 
in  her  little  choked  voice.  He  turned 
an'  grinned  up  at  me,  he  nodded  that 
red  head.  The  laugh  was  dancin' 
in  the  black  eyes  of  him,  but  his  jaw- 
set  like  a  rock.  'Sure,  if  she's  that 
set  on  pretty  clothes,  she'll  come 
round,  all  right,'  says  he.  An'  come 
round  she  did.  But  not  even  he 
could  save  our  little  Paitrick.  An' 

[18] 


THE  MESSENGER 

the  next  year,  when  Himself  was  took 
away— 

Her  low  voice  faltered  to  silence. 
Edith  glanced  up  again.  Through 
the  dark  car  window,  she  caught  the 
reflection  of  their  faces,  side  by  side. 
Curiously  she  realized  that  they  two, 
she  and  this  worn,  middle-aged 
woman,  looked  alike.  They  might 
have  been  an  elder  and  a  younger 
sister.  Sisters  in  sorrow,  they  were. 
The  same  anguish  had  scarred  both 
the  lovely  young  face  and  the  weary 
older  one.  Both  stared  out  upon 
their  world  with  the  hungry  asking 
eyes  of  bereavement,  searching  eter- 
nally, uncomforted. 

"Ah,  then,  not  even  Doctor  Mac- 
Donald  could  help.  He  was  like 
he's  tied,  hand  and  foot.  An'  it  cut 
him  to  the  heart.  He  stayed  by  me 

[19] 


THE  MESSENGER 

an*  fought  the  night  through,  he  an' 
the  big  surgeon  he'd  brought,  an'  the 
nurses.  But  'twas  no  use  at  all.  .  .  . 
"Afterwards  ...  I  don't  well  re- 
member. I  went  fumblin'  around 
at  me  work,  clumsy-like ;  I  couldn't 
half  sense  things.  I  was  like  one 
struck  blind  an'  dumb.  An*  I 
couldn't  breathe  right.  'Twas  like 
somethin'  smothered  me.  'Twasn't 
that  I  grieved  Himself  so.  No,  for  I 
hadn't  the  sense  to  know  what  had 
hit  me,  I  just  knowed  the  life  was 
gone  out  of  me,  that  was  all.  An' 
all  those  months,  I  kept  clutchin'  out 
in  the  dark,  for  to  find  Himself.  I 
had  to  get  hold  of  him,  somehow.  I 
kept  his  hat  hangin'  on  its  peg,  an' 
his  pipe  laid  on  the  mantel,  where 
me  eyes  could  see  them,  every  minute, 
as  I  wint  round  at  me  work.  I'd  go 

[20] 


THE  MESSENGER 

to  bed  nights  wid  his  old  coat,  wid 
the  good  pipe  smell  in  it,  rolled  under 
my  head,  hopin'  maybe  I  could 
dream.  .  .  .  But  not  one  thought 
nor  easing  would  come  of  it,  all. 
Never  one  glimpse  of  Himself. 
Never  one  touch  of  his  big  kind 
hand,  to  comfort  me.  An*  after  a 
while,  I  knew  I  couldn't  stand  it  no 
longer.  I'd  struggled  me  best.  Now 
the  time  had  come,  I  must  have 
help.  Or  else  sink. 

"  'Twas  strange,  too.  For  the  year 
gone,  I'd  buried  me  old  mother,  an* 
it  seemed  then  like  a  piece  of  me 
was  buried  with  her.  An'  then  I'd 
lost  me  boy,  me  baby;  an'  that  was 
crueller  still.  But  when  I  lost  Him- 
self, my  own  man,  who'd  always 
been  that  good  to  me,  who'd  been 
that  big  an*  kind  an'  strong  that  I 

[21] 


THE  MESSENGER 

could  always  hold  fast  to  him,  no 
matter  what  came  to  me — then 
seemed  like  I'd  just  let  go.  'Tis 
the  same  always,  I  suppose.  Mary, 
pity  us!  We  women  are  all  like 
that." 

Edith  nodded,  vaguely.  Again  she 
looked  deep  into  the  other's  face, 
and  found,  as  in  a  tragic  mirror,  her 
own  face  shadowed  there. 

"Along  March,  there  come  a  gray 
cold  day,  when  I  couldn't  bear  it  no 
longer.  I'd  been  to  the  priest,  yes. 
But  even  Father  Kelley  himself 
couldn't  help  me.  For,  sure,  hadn't 
he  knowed  Himself?  Didn't  he 
know  well,  just  what  I'd  lost?  An' 
for  all  he  longed  to  comfort  me,  the 
best  he  could  do  was,  to  set  there 
wid  his  hands  twisted,  hard,  an' 
tell  me  the  rewards  of  Heaven. 

[22] 


THE  MESSENGER 

What  did  I  want  wid  the  rewards  of 
Heaven  ?  I  wanted  Himself.  I 
wanted  the  grip  of  his  great  rough 
hand,  an'  the  noise  of  his  laugh, 
an'  the  stomp  of  his  foot  when  he'd 
come  up  the  stairs.  Somewhere, 
Himself  was  alive.  I  was  hangin' 
to  that,  like  a  drownin'  thing.  But 
—oh,  my  God!  The  hour'd  come 
when  I  had  to  know! 

"Maybe  you'll  think  strange  of 
me,  ma'am.  But  I  was  that  wild, 
I'd  have  clutched  at  anything.  As 
I  came  blundherin'  down  the  street,  I 
passed  Madame  Clytemnestra's,  the 
medium's.  An'  for  all  I  knew  'twas 
foolishness,  an'  worse,  I  couldn't 
hold  me  feet  from  carryin'  me  in. 

"I  tried  to  tell  Madame  Clytem- 
nestra.  But  the  words,  they  stuck 
in  me  throat.  An'  she  sat  there,  in 

[23] 


THE  MESSENGER 

her  red-an'-gilt  clothes,  lookin'  at 
me;  an'  for  all  they  say  she's  such  a 
divil  of  a  talker,  she  hadn't  no  word 
to  say.  But  she  gave  me  a  little 
purple  bag,  an*  said  maybe  it  would 
help.  'Maybe,'  says  she,  thinkin'- 
like.  An'  she  went  wid  me  down  the 
steps,  for  they  was  sleeted,  an'  she 
wouldn't  take  no  money. 

"I  crawled  home,  somehow.  I 
remember  how  the  figures  on  the  oil- 
cloth danced  an'  swam  as  I  climbed 
the  stairs.  'Twas  like  I  was  climbin' 
them  for  the  last  time. 

"I  sat  there  by  the  windy,  wid  the 
purple  bag  in  one  hand,  an'  Father 
Kelley's  thracks  in  the  other,  a  long 
time.  After  a  while,  the  Bellevue 
wagon  wint  lippin'  by.  I  glimpsed 
Doctor  MacDonald's  red  head 
through  the  door,  an'  saw  him  wave 

[24] 


THE  MESSENGER 

his  hand  to  me  wee  Katy,  who  was 
playin'  on  the  curb.  An'  I  had  a 
queer  thought  of  envy  for  the  sick 
one,  whoever  it  might  be,  that  he'd 
be  carin'  for. 

"After  long  hours,  I  heard  wee 
Katy  runnin'  upstairs,  an'  a  heavy 
step  followin'  after.  An'  one  minute 
I  looked  at  that  purple  bag:  an' 
the  wall  went  red  and  dark  before 
me  eyes.  Then  me  heart  sank  again. 
For  the  door  opened,  an'  in  walked 
Doctor  MacDonald. 

"For  a  while,  he  didn't  say  nothin'. 
He  sat  wid  wee  Katy  on  his  knee,  an' 
fed  her  pop-corn.  An'  I  could  feel 
him  lookin'  round  the  room,  at  Him- 
self s  old  hat  an'  coat  on  the  peg,  an' 
his  pipe  on  the  shelf,  pitiful-like.  An' 
after  a  while,  he  looked  down  at  the 
purple  bag  in  me  hands;  an'  the 

[25] 


THE  MESSENGER 

pity  in  his  eyes  was  like  he'd  spoke 
it,  out  loud.  Then  he  began  to 
talk. 

:<He  was  a  pretty  good  sort, 
Mrs.  McCarthy,'  he  says.  'I've 
knocked  around  a  good  bit,  an'  I'm 
something  of  a  judge.  You  had  a 
man  to  be  proud  of.  You  don't 
know  how  many  good  turns  he's 
done  for  folks,  one  time  an'  another. 
Sometimes  I  wonder  if  anybody 
thinks  to  tell  you  of  them.' 

;'Tell  me  any  you  know,'  says  I. 
For  I  was  hungry  for  the  sound  of 
Himself's  name.  So  he  went  on, 
very  slow,  wid  his  eyes  on  the  floor, 
an'  his  hand  pattin'  wee  Katy's 
head. 

"First  time  I  ever  saw  McCarthy 
was  when  the  'longshoremen's  strike 
was  on.  He  was  teamin'  for  the 

[26] 


THE  MESSENGER 

Colony  Fruit  people,  an'  what  with 
their  stuff  bein'  perishable,  and  the 
strikers  hectoring  him,  and  the  ther- 
mometer climbing  around  ninety- 
six,  down  on  those  broilin'  wharves, 
why  McCarthy's  job  wasn't  a  cinch. 
But  no  matter  what  turned  up, 
McCarthy  stayed  peaceable  as  a 
spring  lamb.  You  couldn't  rattle 
him,  to  save  you.  You  couldn't 
make  him  mad,  either.  Only  once, 
in  all  those  weeks,  did  anybody  see 
him  fire  up.  But  that  time — Jove, 
but  that  was  the  lovely  sight! 

"'Early  one  Monday  morning, 
Shayne,  the  Colony  people's  strike- 
breaker, had  brought  down  an  Italian 
gang,  and  set  them  to  work  unloading 
a  fruit  schooner,  right  under  the 
pickets'  eyes.  It  was  a  fool's  trick, 
for  the  pickets  were  all  Kerry  men, 

[27] 


THE  MESSENGER 

and  spoiling  for  a  fight;  and  the 
Italians  weren't  on  the  ground  ten 
minutes  before  the  fun  began.  It 
was  a  peppery  young  Neapolitan, 
Pietro  somebody,  who  opened  the 
ball.  The  pickets  kept  daring  the 
crowd,  and  slinging  names,  but  the 
gang  paid  no  attention,  till  this  Pie- 
tro caught  one  name  he  wouldn't 
stand  for.  He  picked  up  a  good 
ripe  melon,  and  fired  it  into  the 
crowd.  It  was  a  good  shot;  maybe 
half  a  dozen  strikers  got  a  juicy 
swat.  Ridiculous  as  it  was,  that  was 
all  the  crowd  wanted.  They  lit  in 
on  the  Italians  like  a  falling  house. 
Pietro  got  his  share,  and  more.  Be- 
tween the  heat,  and  its  being  Monday 
morning,  the  boys  had  a  beautiful 
grouch  on,  and  they  didn't  realize 
they  were  going  so  far.  By  the  time 

[28] 


THE  MESSENGER 

McCarthy  spied  the  fracas,  and  came 
galloping  his  team  down  the  pier, 
the  life  was  pretty  much  slammed 
out  of  that  poor  little  loon,  Pietro. 
He  grabbed  Pietro  out  of  the  shindy, 
dumped  him  behind  a  pile  of  freight 
and  then  sailed  in.  It  must  have 
gone  against  the  grain,  to  side  with 
the  dagoes  against  his  own  mates, 
but  he  did  it,  all  right.  He  held 
Flannigan,  the  leader,  up  by  the 
collar,  while  he  expressed  his  senti- 
ments, and  in  two  minutes  that 
blarney  tongue  of  his,  half  petting, 
half  whiplash,  had  the  men  all 
calmed  down,  and  shamefaced  and 
grinning  like  a  pack  of  licked  school- 
boys. Somebody  had  sent  in  a  hurry 
call,  but  by  the  time  we  got  there,  it 
was  all  over  but  the  shouting.  Mc- 
Carthy had  'em  eating  out  of  his 


THE  MESSENGER 

hand.  He'd  saved  the  company's 
consignment,  he'd  saved  the  boys  a 
mess  in  court  and  a  black  eye  for  the 
union,  he'd  saved  Pietro's  life — for 
the  kid  pulled  through  all  right, 
though  he  was  badly  thrashed.  And 
for  McCarthy,  it  was  all  in  the  day's 
work.  When  the  inspector  and  I 
started  in  to  praise  him,  he  thought 
we  were  guying  him.  That  was 
McCarthy,  straight  through.  He  was 
a  good  sort,  he  was.' 

'"He  never  told  me  one  livin' 
word  of  all  that,  at  all,'  says  I. 
"Twas  Himself  all  over,  to  side  wid 
the  under  dog.' 

"'That  was  always  his  way,'  says 
the  doctor,  wid  a  nod.  'You  knew 
what  he  did  for  Garrity,  the  time  his 
ribs  was  broke  when  the  derrick  fell  ? ' 

'"For   Garrity?'    says   I.     'Sure, 

[30] 


THE  MESSENGER 

Himself  never  turned  his  hand  for 
Garrity,  nor  any  of  his  kin.  For 
Himself  could  never  abide  him. 
Townies  they  were,  in  the  old  coun- 
try, but  they  were  the  black  haters 
here.  Himself  paid  his  share  in  the 
Brotherhood  for  Garrity's  bills  at 
the  hospital,  but  that's  all  ever  he 
did  for  a  Garrity,  mind/ 

'Was  it  now?'  says  the  doctor, 
an*  the  grin  lightin'  his  eyes  again. 
'So  I  thought  myself.  So  I'd  think 
to-day,  if  I  hadn't  caught  McCarthy 
red-handed.  He  come  slinkin'  to 
me  with  seventeen  dollars  and  sixty 
cents,  and  asked  me,  would  I  send  it 
in  a  money  order  to  Garrity's  old 
father,  back  in  Bally oran.  Mum- 
bled something  about  its  being  a 
little  hand-out  from  the  boys,  only 
they  didn't  want  their  names  put  in. 

[31] 


THE  MESSENGER 

I  was  just  low-minded  enough  to 
suspect  him  that  minute.  And  at 
eleven  o'clock  that  very  night,  I 
chased  down  to  Pier  19  on  an  emer- 
gency call;  and,  driving  back,  we 
passed  McCarthy  with  his  team, 
loaded  to  the  gunwale.  I  didn't  say 
one  word;  but  the  next  day  I  traced 
it  up.  Bless  you,  here  was  Mc- 
Carthy, doing  four  hours  extra  team- 
ing by  night,  and  puttin'  the  money 
to  Garrity's  account  at  the  Dime 
Savings,  so  it  would  be  lying  there 
ready  to  give  Garrity  a  leg  up  when 
he  came  out  of  the  hospital.  He 
had  his  tracks  well  covered ;  Garrity 
never  learned,  I'll  wager.  But  I 
charged  him  with  it,  straight  out, 
and  whaled  him  for  not  letting  me 
help.  First,  he  tried  to  lie  out  of  it. 
Then  he  looked  like  he'd  been  steal- 

[32] 


THE  MESSENGER 

ing  sheep.  And  he  swore  me  not  to 
tell  the  boys.  "They'd  have  the 
laugh  on  me  for  twinty  years  to 
come,"  says  he.  "For  Garrity  an'  me 
has  been  inimies,  tried  an'  true.  An' 
Garrity,  if  he  gits  wind  of  it,  he'll 
niver  forgive  me.  But  sure  'tis  bad 
enough  that  the  poor  pig-headed 
gossoon  should  lay  there  an'  suffer, 
widout  that  he  an'  the  kids  must  face 
the  winter  empty-handed.  An'  mind 
ye  hold  yer  tongue!"  he  blusters  after 
me,  fierce  an'  hangdog  at  once.  And 
he  slammed  away,  lashing  his  team 
like  he's  a  riot  call.  That  was  Mc- 
Carthy, all  right.  The  best  lad 
ever,  he  was.' 

"I'd  listened,  greedy-like,  to  every 
word. 

"I'd  never  heard  one  breath  of 
them  doings,  neither,'  says  I.     An' 

[33] 


THE  MESSENGER 

somehow,  for  the  first  time  in  all 
those  weeks,  I  felt  the  weight  ease  on 
me  breast.  *  Himself  was  that  close- 
mouthed!  But,  sure,  'tis  good  to 
know  of  it,  now/ 

'Yes,'  said  the  doctor,  thinkin'- 
like.  'Yes.  It  is  good  to  know 
these  things.  And — and  maybe,  he 
himself  wants  you  to  know  them, 
now.  So — perhaps  that  is  why  I'm 
telling  you  of  them.' 

"He  turned  and  looked  at  me, 
straight.  An'  it  was  like  a  light 
came  into  the  room. 

'You  mean,' — I  says,  'you  mean 
that  you  believe — do  They  know? 
Can  we  ever  find  Them,  again  ?' 

"He  leaned  over,  pitiful-like,  an' 
took  the  foolish  purple  bag  from  my 
hands. 

"'Yes,' he  says,  very  low.     'We'll 

[34] 


THE  MESSENGER 

find  Them,  again.  Be  sure  of  that. 
But — not  these  ways.  I'm  mighty 
clumsy  about  putting  it  into  words 
for  you.  But — but  I  don't  just  be- 
lieve. I  know.  Why,  it's  certain  as 
daylight.  What  else  are  all  these 
things  I'm  telling  you,  about  Mc- 
Carthy, but  messages  from  him,  to 
make  ye  sure  ?  And  why  else  should 
ye  keep  on  lovin'  him  ?  Unless  it  is 
that  the  love  between  ye  two  is  a 
bond,  so  strong  that  not  even  Death 
can  break  it  ? 

"No,  I  don't  know  how  to  put  it 
into  words  for  you.  I  only  wish  I 
could.  But  to  me  it's  like  this.  All 
these  good  memories  that  you  have 
of  him,  go  to  make  this  bond,  that 
unites  you  two,  still.  Every  kind, 
decent  thing  he's  done  is  a  link  in 
that  chain.  An'  every  bit  of  news 

[35] 


THE  MESSENGER 

of  him,  like  this  I've  told  you  to-day, 
is  like  a  word  across  the  night,  from 
him  to  you.  He  is  not  lost  to  you. 
He  is  not  dead.  I  don't  just  believe 
what  I  say.  I  know.9 

"And  he  was  right.  For,  in  these 
months,  I've  watched,  and  thought, 
and  learned  to  understand.  As  my 
need  comes,  I'll  remember  them,  all. 
The  little  kind,  good  things  he  did 
for  folks;  the  gentleness  of  him;  the 
friendly  ways — when  I  mind  them 
'tis  like  the  grip  of  his  big  warm 
hand  in  the  dark.  An'  it's  that  that 
keeps  the  life  in  me,  ma'am."  Her 
sombre  eyes  lighted  with  sudden  fire. 
Across  her  faded,  work-marred  face 
there  flowed  again  that  white,  mys- 
terious radiance,  the  radiance  of  a 
love  triumphant,  immortal.  "Now 
I  have  those  things  to  hold  fast  to,  I 

[36] 


THE  MESSENGER 

can  be  sure.  He's  not  dead,  my 
man.  The  hour  'ill  come  when  I'll 
find  him,  once  again.  'Tis  sure  as 
the  light  of  day.  An'  till  then,  I 
can  hold  fast  to  these  things,  that 
keep  him  alive  to  me.  He  sent  me 
that  promise,  straight  through  the 
doctor's  word.  An'  'tis  the  truth, 
forever,  just  as  the  doctor  said. 
'Tis  a  small  cord,  an'  a  frail  one, 
maybe.  But  it  will  hold.  For  'tis 
the  eternal  tie  between  us  an'  our 
beloved  dead." 

The  train  drew  slowly  to  a  stand- 
still. Edith  stood  up:  for  a  mo- 
ment, her  hand  grasped  the  other 
woman's  hard  fingers:  then  she 
turned,  and  went  swiftly  from  the 
train. 

She    walked    through    the    long, 

[37] 


THE  MESSENGER 

dusky  station,  erect,  transfigured. 
The  folding  black  yet  clouded  round 
her  white  calm  face.  But  her 
mouth  curved  once  more  in  its  old 
lovely  happiness,  and  her  eyes  were 
sweet  with  peace.  Across  that  far, 
unfathomed  Night,  her  pleading  voice 
had  carried.  And,  in  the  words  of 
this,  their  humble  messenger,  the 
answer  had  come  back  to  her,  a  cry 
all  ringing  golden  with  assurance. 
A  promise,  and  a  covenant;  a  cer- 
tainty with  wings. 


[38] 


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